


The Empty Bed

by TheSinkingSubmarine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSinkingSubmarine/pseuds/TheSinkingSubmarine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has officially returned from the dead. John is angry. Sherlock proceeds to tell him about a terrorist attack, but there was something more important he wants John to know...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Bed

“But it’s the solar system!”

It all seemed so long ago — John’s voice almost seemed like a distant memory in his mind. The fiesta that left two fine restaurants picking up after their remains had brought them to a subway shop. Not the best place for a chat on terrorism — but it’ll do, he supposed. 

“One word, Sherlock — that is all I would’ve needed — one word to let me know that you were alive!” The familiar sound of John’s low, panicky voice comes rushing back to him. His attempt to reprimand never ceased to amuse him. Sherlock sighed inwardly — if only this was simply a frivolous banter. 

“London is in danger, John, there is an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

He waited for John to look up at him with those large dark eyes of his. He already knew what he was about to say — “My help?”

It wasn’t because he was unable to detect the underlying sarcasm in John’s tone — it was just too much fun teasing him. “You have missed this. Admit it — the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world—”

He saw it coming, the collar of his shirt tightly grasped between a curled fist. Just as their noses touched each other, John’s head launched backwards. Mary’s hand was firmly seized around John’s collar. Sherlock frowned slightly — she was stronger than she looked. 

“What’ya do that for?” John growled. 

“To stop you from breaking his nose,” said Mary. She picked her coat off the counter and turned towards the door.

“Where are you going?” asked John.

“Leaving.”

“What?”

“And I’m not letting you come home with me until you two sort this out.” With that, she was gone.

John reluctantly turned to Sherlock. “So?”

“Yes — the terrorist attack —”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me why you did it?”

“Did what?”

“Jumped off a roof right before my eyes, disappear for two bloody years and let me stand in front of your grave and say those words—”

“What words?”

John looked down. “Nothing.”

Sherlock frowned again. “Anyway, the terrorist attack—”

“You let me beg for you to come back!”

“Yes, and by all means, wish granted.” Sherlock gave him a look as an indication of his presence.

John banged his fist onto the counter. “I swear to God, Sherlock — just how thick could you possibly get?”

The corner of his lips curled into a sly smile. “I’ve missed you, John.”

“Oh, and I, you, Sherlock.”

The next thing he knew, John felt another tight grasp — this time round his forearm. He looked up, and Sherlock was right in front of him, running. He felt his own feet matching the pace of Sherlock’s, as they made their way through the door, out into the open streets. With Sherlock’s dark curls and black suit on, he could hardly see him in the dark. 

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you home.” Sherlock took a step off the pavement and raised an arm for a cab.

“Good. I was just about to call Mary.”

“Not Mary’s home,’ he said just as a taxi pulled towards the curb.

John made the same expression he did every time Sherlock became the sociopath he was. “You expect me to go back to your home?”

“No.” Sherlock pulled the cab door open. “Our home.”

John was not sure what he was thinking at that moment, but he got into the cab as Sherlock fumbled after him. 

“221B Baker Street, please.” That was a statement John hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Weeks? Months? He couldn’t put a finger on it.

“How should I explain to Mrs Hudson?” John croaked.

“Given at this hour, she has to be asleep by now.”

“Then how are we going to get into the flat?”

Sherlock smirked. “With your keys.”

“Do you just assume I walk around carrying my bloody keys wherever I go?”

“Well, you can’t have my keys, can you… unless—” he turned and looked John straight in the eye, his blue eyes faintly visible under the dimly-lit surroundings — “you have both.”

John turned to look ahead. Of course he’d know. Because why wouldn’t he? He was Sherlock Holmes. “I wasn’t going to let Mrs Hudson rent the apartment to someone else.”

The rest of the ride was accompanied by a long, hard silence. Millions of thoughts swarmed through Sherlock’s head, as usual, but this time, they all seem to come down to one thing, or — one person, needless to say — John. Normally, he’d find it easy explaining himself, so why was it so difficult to tell him why he’d keep something as big as faking a death from John — John, his flatmate, his partner, his companion, his best friend, his —

“Sherlock.”  
“Yes.”

“We’re here.” He didn’t realise that the cab had stopped for quite some time, and John was standing right outside, waiting for him. He got out of the cab.

221B Baker Street. How long has it been since they ran across London all the way to the flat, the first time Sherlock introduced John to Mrs Hudson as his new flatmate? 

“Shh,” said Sherlock as they made their way up the stairs.

“Me?” John hissed. God, he was an ass. And — surprisingly, he missed it. 

The living room was exactly as Sherlock remembered leaving it — the sofa at one end against the not-too-damaged wall, with the two armchairs on the other side just before the fireplace. He smiled. Even his skull was left intact on the mantel.

“John… I know you have a lot of questions—”

“I’m glad you noticed,” he muttered.

“But would you do me a favour and sleep on it — and I promise — we will talk in the morning… possibly — do something about that thing above your lip.”

“Oh, this is just great.”

Sherlock paused. Clearly, this was not working out. “I’ll be in my room.”

John stopped him. “I — don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Sherlock shot him a puzzled look. 

“Mrs Hudson goes in there early in the morning to clean it,” said John. “She wants to make sure that if you were to… come back… you’d have an immaculate room to stay in.”

“I thought you said she wanted to rent it out.”

“She almost did.”

“Well, at least someone misses me.”

“Who do think stopped her from renting out your room, Sherlock?” John’s whisper was getting louder by word. “Jesus Christ, do you think this has been easy for me?”

“Seeing you with Mary, I’d say—”

“I’ve known her for four months, Sherlock. I’ve known you for four years. Four. Whole. Bloody. Years. Do you honestly think she was a replacement for you? She was going to be my new life, but of course — you’d have to have your way with it, because everything has to be about you, doesn’t it?

“The other day, I went to your grave and asked for one last miracle.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured. “I heard.”

John stared at him. “Son of a— ”

Before he could finish his sentence, John felt two hands around his neck. For a moment, he thought he was being strangled, but then he felt the warm cup under his cheeks, soft and soothing — almost as soft as the touch his lips when they met his, as they intertwined. 

For seconds, the world seemed to have stopped, and time wasn’t a matter in the equation. John felt the embrace pulling them closer together. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop.

“Sherlock.”

He moaned between his lips.

After what seemed to a lifetime, they pulled apart. John watched Sherlock’s chest rising and falling. At the same time, he felt the adrenaline rushing upwards across his body, all the way towards his face. Thank God the lights were off — he wouldn’t want Sherlock to see him go red as a beetroot. 

John watched as Sherlock’s lips quivered, reopening slowly and hearing those words escape from his mouth, “John — I love you.”

Before he could say anything, Sherlock picked him up and carried him into John’s bedroom. John felt himself being gently thrown onto his own bed, the soft, cool sheets touching his skin. As he looked up, the bluest eyes stared down at him like sapphires.

“Having me here, Sherlock?” he managed to tease him, hoping it would make things less awkward. As he laid on the sheets, Sherlock had both legs on his sides, and gently caressed him.

“Yes — my way.” Sherlock smirked.

Just as he was tugging John’s coat and shirt off, he felt a seize round his waist and shoulder, instantly flipping on his back. “Not this time,” John teased.

“—Wait.” Sherlock sat up on the bed. “This isn’t right.”

John stared at him, his eyes wide as saucers. “Sorry — come again?” He sat up to face him, his legs still locked around his. “You brought me all the way home — kissed me in the dark — swept me off my feet — and now you choose to stop?”

“Think about — Mary, John — think about what the world we think — everyone we know—”

“For fuck’s sake, fuck Mary!” he bellowed in his intentionally smallest voice (the walls were too thin). “Fuck the entire world — fuck Mrs Hudson, fuck Lestrade, fuck Mycroft—”

“Now I wouldn’t pull my brother into this — as much as he’s an ass.”

“SHERLOCK!” he had lost his patience. “It’s always been just you — only you.”

He stared at him, waiting. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” he gasped. “Now, please — do me a favour and fuck me.”

The next thing he knew was an urgent spasm of aggressive making out. The passion was so great it was almost torturous. He couldn’t tell which was quicker — the lip-locking or the removal of clothing. 

Then — he felt it — skin on skin — the sensation far beyond unnerving. His fingers stroked across the back, all the way from the waist to the shoulders. 

“Turn to your back,” he faintly hear Sherlock mumble. 

“Mm-mm,” was the reply — and he did.

John would never forget the first time he first lost his innocence. It was with his first girlfriend, he remembered. Everything was awkward and beautiful.

But with Sherlock — it was invigorating. He had almost forgotten what it was like to fully open up to another person. With Sherlock’s front firmly pressed against his back, his dark curls brushing his ears, and his warm mouth hovering all over his neck — an overwhelming imagery he never thought he’d experience. It was unfathomable. Yet it all seem to fall in place so perfectly. With Sherlock, everything seemed — so right.

“Ah — right there… just — there — Sherlock…” 

“Is this… how you’d — like it… John…?”

“Just keep moving as you are.”

They were so close, he could feel Sherlock’s heart beating as quick as his own. He loved it — the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, just the two of them — together. He could nearly see it now… the end of the horizon—

“SHERLOCK!” he heard himself scream as his own name escaped from Sherlock’s lips, his palpitating soul bursting in ecstasy.

…

“Have you ever heard of the heliocentric model?” Sherlock asked John softly. He had himself wrapped around John, in which John held onto him in a foetus position. 

“The what?” John’s voice muffled beneath his embrace.

“It’s the idea of a astronomical model in which the Earth and planets revolve around the Sun.” 

John pulled away from him and looked him in the eye in an inquisitive manner. “So you do know about the solar system.”

Sherlock grinned. “Two years can do a lot to a person.

“But what I’m saying is — would it be probable to say that our relationship is heliocentric?”

John frowned. “How so?”

“Earlier today, you said everything has to be about me — that it has to be my way. In that case, this would mean your life is revolving around mine, hence the heliocentric relationship between us.”

“Yea…” John frowned. “What’s your point?”

“The truth is, John, I’d like to think of it as the other way round.” He gently stroked John’s arm. “You stood before that grave and asked me give you one more miracle—”

“And now here you are. What does that have to do with us being heliocentric?”

“It means that I came back for you because you asked me to, John. I revolve around you. What I’m saying is… you are my Sun.”  
…

The morning light hit John’s closed eyelids. He turned to his side to give Sherlock a kiss, only to find no one beside him. He quivered. Had Sherlock returning from the dead all been merely a dream?

Fumbling out of bed, he got dressed quickly and hurried into the living room. He stopped abruptly. He hadn’t seen the tall man with the black umbrella in quite a while. 

“Mycroft?”

Sitting by the fireplace was no other than Sherlock, with his violin underneath his chin, adjusting the tune. He looked up at John with a smile. 

“Morning, Watson. You look well.” The familiarity of Mycroft’s snarky tone echoed across the room. “I see that Sherlock had taken the liberty in escorting you home to your bed.”

John fidgeted. Did Mycroft know?

“Uh — where’s Mrs Hudson?”

“I’m here, John, I’m alright.” The old lady appeared from behind the door. “Just about to go run some errands. Try not to pulverise my wall while I’m gone, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked as she left. 

Mycroft turned his attention back on his brother. “So, Sherlock — where do we begin?”

“Right now, Mycroft? Right now, we should be out.”

John cut in. “Out? Where are we going?”

Sherlock got up and buttoned up his suit. “Back into business, John — what did you think? That I was going to sit around waiting for the world to implode just because I returned only last night?”

Just as Mycroft headed through the doorway, John couldn’t help but wonder: had it really been all just a dream?

“I swear to God, Sherlock,” he said, “if you’re fucking around with me, I swear to God — I will kill you.”

Making sure Mycroft has disappeared ahead of them down the stairs, Sherlock handed John his coat, drawing himself closer towards his face and planting a long, sensual kiss on his lips. As soon as he pulled apart from him, he walked forwards, his lips meeting John’s ear, whispering, “Oh please. Killing me? That’s so two years ago.”


End file.
